Vendetta
by thelamestauthorever
Summary: Lydia Wickham looks at her 'Dear Wickham' with fear in her heart and fire in her belly. He isn't who he was when they married, and neither is she.


_**A/N: I wanted to write a darker look into the life of Lydia Wickham in two parts. I don't like to think she stays foolish forever, and Wickham showed a real promising nature for violence and anger. Seeing as I'm kind of new to fanfiction writing, I will accept constructive criticism. If there's another story like this, I apologize for copying, because my ideas aren't really that original. I literally got this idea from listening to 'He had it Coming.' Enjoy**_

_**Part 1: **_

It was four months into Lydia Bennet ne Wickham's marriage when he first struck her. He had come home, stumbling and drunk, and the young woman had been fixing a bonnet by the firelight. "Lydia! Get in here!" he called raucously, his voice carrying through their small home. She stood, somewhat shakily, as she had seen what he was capable of when he fought other men. This young woman didn't like seeing her husband drunk. "My dear Wickham, whatever is the matter?" she questioned. He slurred his words so badly that she couldn't understand him, so she did not reply. "Answer me when I talk to you!" he screamed, and his hand pulled back. The next thing Lydia had remembered was awaking on the floor of the drawing room, her face had been in a pool of her own blood.

Her nose had broken, so that morning, when it was still dark, she stole away to the physician to have it reset and fixed. She was home before George had woken up, much to her relief. For the rest of the week, Lydia made herself scarce, not wanting to be around him, not wanting him to see the damage he inflicted upon her. It did little to help, as the next time he saw her, he seemed to be satisfied with his work that he left on her face. "Maybe that will teach you to be less foolish," he had hissed, grabbing her face and holding her close to him. He stank of stale whiskey and other women's perfume.

And so, their relationship continued on like that for the next several months. Fighting, and hitting, throwing plates and scaring their few servants. George only got particularly violent when he was drunk, usually it was only a slap or a push. Then he began to get drunk more often. Almost every letter she wrote was to Lizzie or Jane, asking for more money, because he drank and gambled it all away. She hadn't purchased a new anything in weeks. Her friends, the wives of other officers, acted as if that was perfectly normal. "My dear Lyddie, men do that sometimes, but we still love them," insisted Mrs. Janet Smythe, a mousy woman in her early thirties, as she carefully dabbed at the bruise on Lydia's eye.

Lydia nodded, pretending she understood, but she didn't, not really. George was supposed to love and cherish her, he used to delight in her gossip and fashion talk, now he only yelled at her and threw things. He used to buy her ribbons, now he only bought ale or alcohol, he used to hold her and whisper sweet nothings. Now nothing he said was sweet. After Janet and Blanche left, only one of her close friends remained. Standing in the corner, with one of the few unbroken wine glasses in her hand, was Millicent Morgan, her fiery red hair piled on top of her head fashionably. "You simply cannot let him treat you like you're nothing but a servant to him- he doesn't deserve your love if he abuses you so."

"But what can I do Millie?" Lydia whined, glaring at her friend, wondering what the point of her statement was. Millicent stared her friend down, rolling her eyes, "You kill him," she answered simply. The young woman squeaked in shock at her friend's idea. "I could never kill my dear Wickham!" Millicent rolled her eyes once more. "Don't say I never gave you any ideas. I'm off; I need to look at the new silk ribbons before they all sell…" She waved to her friend, giving her a hug and a serious look. After the red head left, Lydia sat in her drawing room, thinking about what Millicent had said. She couldn't… could she? He wasn't that bad, he loved her. She knew it. Lydia resolved to not hurt her husband. Surely Millicent had been jesting after all.

When their one year anniversary came about, Lydia discovered she was with child. A panic filled her like no other, barely sixteen, and to have a baby!? Her heart raced at the idea of George's reaction, he would surely be pleased. When she told him though, he wasn't pleased, not pleased at all. "Is it mine?" he asked tersely, staring at her with frightening, cold eyes. Her stomach filled with dread, he would never believe that she could be with another man, would he? "I repeat, is it mine," his voice was like knives, cold and sharp. Lydia nodded as quickly as she could, backing away from him, she stopped though, when her foot reached the top of the narrow, steep stairwell.

"I don't believe you!" her dear George screamed, slapping her. She felt her foot slip over the first step, and then she was falling. She awoke in her bed, with the physician staring at her with an expression that she realized was pity.

"You fell down the stairs dear, a bit of a fainting spell really," George's voice assured the physician, Mr. Miller. "I'm sorry love, but you lost the baby," fake tears rolled down her husband's stubble covered cheek. Slowly, Lydia nodded, before being left alone to cry. And she cried for hours it seemed. George didn't come home that night, nor did he come home the next night. He did come home eventually, but when he did, all he did was walk past her, pushing her and glaring.

For two months, he seemed to relent on her, not touching her, unless he wanted her to perform her marital duties, but even then, that was rare. He had his whores and barmaids. Then, the third month after 'the incident' as she began to refer to it, she went to the shops with her friends. There, she saw a good natured man by the name of Richard Fitzwilliam, she recognized him because he looked remarkably like her brother-in-law, but not nearly as handsome. He talked to her for five minutes before the tinkling bell of the store revealed her husband entering.

The two men stared tersely at one another, before George whisked Lydia out of the shop and home as quickly as possible. When their door closed, he began to scream. "How dare you talk to him!? Do you not know how much I hate him and his insufferable cousin!?" His fist connected with her stomach, and she fell. "Do not even bother answering, you foolish little twit! You know nothing of anything! You stupid stupid whore!" The vase on the lone table was thrown, exploding in a thousand glass shards on the wall. It had been a gift from Jane. "You are not to leave the house without me anymore, do you hear me!? You insufferable fool!" Meekly, Lydia nodded, knowing if she fought, it would be worse.

Four more months passed, and Lydia had only left her home six times. Her friends barely came anymore, and when they did, Janet and Blanche made small talk, and Millicent inspected the house. As always, Millicent stayed after the two others left. "I see you now only have two couches and no chairs. What happened to your chair? Did he gamble it away or sell it for alcohol?" Lydia flushed a deep red, turning away from her friend. "Fine, I shall let the subject drop for now, but dear, I worry about you." A soft, friendly hand touched her face; it was like she was with her sister Kitty again. "I shall see you in a few weeks time, I'm traveling to Derbyshire to visit my Uncle Knightley. I leave tomorrow."

At the sound of Derbyshire, Lydia's head snapped up. Her contact with Lizzie had been cut off since the Richard Fitzwilliam incident. "Could you take a letter to Pemberley for me?" Millicent looked at her strangely. "You mean THE Pemberley? My uncle delights in stories of the estate. Why ever would you need a letter sent there?" Lydia now flushed for different reasons, after George forbade her from even mentioning the Darcy family, she never told her friends (not even to brag) that her sister was unbelievably wealthy.

"My sister is the Mistress of Pemberley, and I just need to send a letter telling her that I'm having a wonderful time being married to George, and that I do love the excitement of running my own household. She need not worry about me- I don't want her pity, or worse, her smug 'I told you so.'" Lydia shuddered at the mere thought. Millicent nodded slowly, "Give me the letter on the morrow before I leave. I shall see to it being delivered personally." Lydia hugged her friend, before sending her on her way.

That evening was spent writing a letter to her sister, delighting in everything and everyone that no longer delighted her in the slightest. So, the letter was sent the next afternoon, and with Millicent gone, Lydia was so very alone. That evening, when she was crying in her room, George came in, swaggering, drunk. He had been out all night, angry about having been decommissioned from the military due to his deep debts. "I have come, for my-hic- marital duties."

"Not tonight George," Lydia practically sobbed, turning away. He did not listen, and so he did the one thing he had yet to do to her in their year and eight months of marriage. The next morning, when she looked upon his sleeping face, she didn't feel hate, she just felt sadness that he was not the George she had married. When he began to stir, Lydia fled to the one room of the house she knew he did not enter often. Their sparse library, with barely twenty books, and no furniture but the shelves built into the walls. Cold spring air nipped at her through the walls, and she lay on the floor, not able to bring herself to move until she heard him leave.

When she finally did move, she only sat up, and her fingers ghosted over the edge of the closest book. It smelled wonderfully like her father, who never truly loved her, but always was steady in his sarcastic insults for her but smiles for Lizzie. She opened it, looking down at the words, they seemed to mock her, as this book was obviously a romance novel. The frivolous nature of the words though, beckoned her, and soon, she found herself immersed in the story.

Slowly, but surely, over the weeks of Millicent's absence, Lydia read every fictional book in the library. Then, eager to learn more, and to forget George's looming presence, she read the instructional and informational books. The more time she spent in the library, the less he bothered her, and so, she spent all her time sitting on the dusty floor of the closet sized room, reading. It was a strange passed time of a girl who had only turned seventeen, but it was something she grew to enjoy. It was her escape from George.

She still had a fortnight before Millicent returned, when a cold, heart shattering realization broke her thought. "Kitty hasn't written to me in months…" she whispered, her voice cracking and her eyes welling up. Another thought went through her mind. George got the post. He only handed her letters. He _must _have her letters. So, in the dead of the night, as George lay passed out on his bed, fully dressed, Lydia crept into his room, and to his dresser. She began to look through his drawers, almost feeling hopeless until she came across an envelope, thick with paper. The woman stole it, before running from the room.

In the safety of her own chambers, Lydia inspected the mail. Six letters from her mother, four from Kitty, two from Jane, one from Mary, and one from her father- the first two from Kitty were boring tales of her newfound love of painting, drawing, and purse netting. The third said she was going to Pemberley for the winter. The fourth letter was of her effusive happiness; she was engaged to a man named Andrew Sedgewick, a parson at a church barely twenty miles from Lizzie. Her mothers letters were boring, until the fifth one, where she lamented at Lydia's lack of writing, and her sadness at how Lydia had missed Kitty's wedding. She missed Kitty's wedding.

Sickness went through Lydia's body, and she found herself physically throwing up as she looked through the letters. Jane had a son, Charles, after Bingley, Lizzie was pregnant, and Mary had a suitor. How everything had changed! Even Maria Lucas was engaged to be married. It was funny, how Lydia had been so proud of herself for finding a husband so early; so much earlier than her siblings, and now she was the most miserable of them. George found her like that, in her room, puking in her chamber pot, surrounded by letters. He went into the biggest rage she had seen him in.

After an hour of being thrown about the room, pushed, slapped, punched, and her own vomit dumped on her, he left. Her arm was broken. Mr. Miller came, and as always, was silent as he fixed her wounds. As he left, Lydia stopped him, "May I borrow some of your medical books- so I don't have to send for you every time this happens?" He stared at her for a moment, and Lydia feared he would say no. So she begged, and pleaded, and poked and prodded until he agreed. "Thank you, thank you!" she cried, her voice regaining some of her old radiance as she spoke. His smile was not genuine, but it was a smile.

Millicent returned a few days later, and she embraced Lydia tightly. "Your arm is broken," she started, staring at the tightly bandaged appendage. "It was nothing-" Lydia assured her, knowing Millicent wouldn't believe her. But like true friend, Millicent just gave her a kiss to the cheek and smiled, handing her Lizzie's letter in reply. Lizzie was not any help really, just replying, bragging of her own pregnancy and a joking prod at how she was surprised Lydia had no children to show yet. Lydia was glad that she hadn't spoken to Lizzie in almost two years. "Millicent, I know I've just asked you a favor with the whole letter ordeal, but do you think that your husband would mind me borrowing some books from your library- I've read all the ones in mine." Millicent nodded and gave another sad smile before going to her bookshelf across the room to grab a few books for Lydia.

Millicent's house was much nicer than Lydia's (which wasn't very nice in the first place,) and Lydia often felt jealousy, especially considering that Millicent's husband was a blacksmith, and so his income was almost always steady, and their house was always warm. Not to mention, he didn't drink away their belongings. "Thank you Millie, I really should be home, I've been feeling a bit under the weather lately." So Lydia left, and went home, immediately going to the little library and beginning a book. Wickham, as she had taken to calling him in her head, came home late that night, but it did not stop him from waking his wife just to yell obscenities and to smack her around a bit.

Thankfully though, as her arm was still injured, he did not harm her as often, but after it had healed, he seemed to make up for it in almost nightly beatings. Their two year anniversary came and went, and like the time before, Lydia discovered she was indeed with child. She did not tell George this time, and she went out of her way to hide from him and spend time either reading or sewing clothing for the baby, as she knew she would not be able to afford anything once it was born.

Fate was not in her hands, as George eventually discovered her quite prominent six month along pregnancy belly. Instead of harming her, he went out of his way to emotionally manipulate her. "You better know what will happen if it's a girl…" he had threatened. Insults were a daily thing, and he would treat her like a child. Millicent of course was over at the Wickham household almost every day, pregnant with a child of her own. She was making sure George didn't hurt Lydia or the baby, and because of that, Lydia was grateful. Finally, the ninth month came, and her water broke on her very own eighteenth birthday.

Twenty hours in the birthing room were the most painful of her life, and George stood outside the whole time, the only people in the room being the midwife and Millicent, holding her hand. In the early morning, the piercing cry of a pink newborn was like music to Lydia Wickham's tired ears. "It's a girl…" whispered Millicent, and Lydia began crying as she clutched the babe to her chest. "What shall you name her?" questioned Millicent, brushing a curl from the baby's forehead. Thankfully, she bore almost no resemblance to her father yet.

"Renee…Renee Catherine Wickham." But all Lydia could feel was fear for her daughter's life. When George was allowed in the room, he had stared at the babe in disgust before turning on his heel and leaving. Millicent left soon after, needing rest of her own. After Renee was born, George began disappearing for weeks at a time, and Lydia was all the gladder for it. Finally, she didn't have bruises covering every inch of her skin all the time. Every letter she received from her mother was replied with hasty scribbling; excuses as to why she would not come home or why they could not visit. They had no idea she had a daughter. They had no idea that their daughter Lydia was gone. She was replaced by a serious, sinister woman who spent her time reading, sewing, or with her only remaining friend.

Without George around, the days seemed to fly past, and she could care less where her husband was. She enjoyed time with her daughter, who had the dark brown eyes of her grandmother, the dimples of her mother, the beautiful hair of her father, and the smile of her aunt Kitty. Millicent had her child, a boy, and she named him Theodore Jonathan Morgan. Millicent's husband was thrilled- a boy to learn the family trade!

When George finally returned, it would only be for five nights to a week, to pay off his debts, to smack his wife around, before he disappeared again. Lydia wouldn't pray for his safety, she prayed he would never return. Her first year of being a mother passed impossibly quickly. It was strange, how she barely cared for herself, as long as Renee was alive, as long as little Renee did not die, she did not care how thin she got, how her gowns hung off her, or how people looked at her with pitying eyes in the streets. When Renee turned one, George's absences grew less and less, and he was home much more often.

The beatings began anew, but he did not touch a hair on Renee's head. The years of her marriage began to melt together, she was nineteen, and already had changed more than she would have expected to change in her whole lifetime. When she sat in her room, brushing the hair on her daughter's head, the door burst open, and George had came in forcefully a bottle in one hand. She had seen that look on his face since the letter incident. Calmly, she lay her daughter down in the bassinette, despite the child being almost too big anymore. "George…" she began, attempting to reason with him for the first time in many months.

"I wanted a damned son! But you gave me this little, unhealthy creature that looks nothing like me! I always knew you were as brazen as a whore, but to have another man's baby!" he screamed, and Lydia flinched, but she slowly backed to the doorway, knowing he would follow her, away from their daughter. It worked, and they were soon by her least favorite place- the stairway. Just as she predicted, she was soon sailing down the stairs, but this time, she knew what the impact felt like, and she wasn't as jarred as she usually would have been. She knew to protect her head.

The bottle in his left hand broke on top of the railing as he came down the stairs, murder in his eyes. "I'm going to make sure every man in the _world _knows that you belong to me, you'll never have another man's baby again," he started, grabbing her dress and yanking it upwards, revealing a sunken stomach and prominent ribs. Jagged glass pierced skin and her shrieks ripped through the house, but she clamped her hand over her own mouth. She musn't wake Renee. The pain caused her to black out.

Like many times before, as she awoke, she was in a puddle of her own blood. Her hand skimmed the cut, and she could tell that it shaped a jagged 'G.W' over her stomach. It was strange, how creative he was when he wanted to be cruel. Shakily, she stood, and walked to the library, where she took out a bottle of particularly strong alcohol, hidden from George, to be used for things like this. After she cleaned the wound (very nasty business indeed) she bandaged it with some clean cotton rags. Their single servant, a cook named Edith, wouldn't arrive until dawn. She had time to clean the blood.

After cleaning the blood, she walked up the stairs, barely able to support herself. There, standing over the bassinette was George, his fingers stroking Renee's face. "Next time you do anything bad, I will not hurt you- I will hurt this abomination." Lydia stopped dead in her tracks, but George wasn't going to stay in the room, instead, he left, pushing her as he passed.

Millicent arrived later that day, and Lydia knew that Millie knew something was amiss. "Remember my advice Lydia." Lydia looked sharply up at Millicent, recalling their conversation, over four years ago. "No, I cannot, Millie, I won't." She whispered, not understanding why she couldn't bring herself to kill George. Millie was her last friend in the whole world, and at that moment, she felt a longing for the presence of Kitty. Kitty would just agree with her surely.

Finally, Lydia's twentieth birthday, and Renee's second birthday approached, and Lydia felt a sense of evil hanging over their house. Barely any furniture remained. Only a couch, a table, one dining chair, two beds, and the bassinette that Renee couldn't fit in anymore, their dressers were gone, only closets remaining for sparse clothing. Their house would be given up soon if something didn't happen to help them. She could no longer ask her sisters for help. Millicent was pregnant once more, and Lydia was glad that she had fended off George's advances as well as possible, and the few times she didn't did not leave her pregnant.

Mere days after Renee turned two, George walked into their house much earlier than usual, to find Lydia on the couch, and Renee toddling on the floor, babbling names and words, attempting to put together sentences. In George's hand was a letter, his knuckles were white, and his eyes livid. "Why in the Lord's name does your DAMNED SISTER KEEP WRITING!?" he screamed, breaking the relative silence. He threw the letter at Lydia, Elizabeth's neat penmanship on the front. Seeing as he would never even give her letters from Kitty, this was a surprise.

Then she realized, it was not from kindness or the allowing of her to read the letter, instead, his fist followed the letter. She felt the skin of her cheek split. After a moment he stopped, breathing hard, and his gaze was turned to the sound of Renee's confused crying. "I forgot my promise," he breathed, taking steps towards his child. His hand was in the air, and suddenly it was brought down against Renee. Again, and again, and again. Before Lydia knew what she was doing, she was on George's back.

"Don't touch Renee! Don't you dare touch HER!" she found herself shrieking angrily, pulling his hair and her nails scratching against his face. His hands found their way around Lydia's throat and she was on the floor, staring into his steely eyes. This was the end, she knew it. But she couldn't bring herself to admit that this was the end. Truthfully though, this was not the end, as their one servant walked in that exact moment, carrying a wooden tray of tea. The sound of the tray hitting the ground and cups shattering as the cook gasped brought George to his senses. He flung himself off of his wife and stalked out of the room.

That night, at dusk, Lydia found herself as a hooded figure, sneaking behind alleyways and into an apothecary. The man at the counter looked truly suspect, and he watched her with wary eyes. She knew what she needed. Twenty minutes later, she glided out of the shop, a bag in her hands. The young woman was home in time to see the cook leave early. "I'll be making dinner tonight, thank you for watching Renee, Edith." Still shaken from what she saw earlier, Edith left, and Lydia went into the kitchen to begin making dinner.

Expertly, from her times without help, Lydia's hands peeled potatoes and carrots, cutting them to put into a thick soup. Ham and chicken and any other meats she could have purchased when into it. As it simmered, she brought the bag into the kitchen and dumped the contents onto the counter. The knife, sharp enough to kill a man sliced the ingredients into fine pieces, and she doled out a healthy serving of soup for her husband. The ingredients were poured into the simmering stew. A smile flickered over Lydia's face as she heard her husband enter the house. "My dear Wickham, dinner is ready!" she called, setting the food down at the last chair in their small dining room.

He grunted, "I knew that I would win- you've finally realized your place." He began eating. Within ten minutes, the bowl was empty, and he demanded more. So she gave him more, and even put the crumbs of her 'special ingredient' into it. Soon, his inebriated state combined with being full lulled him to sleep. Nobody would ever know that she put poisonous mushrooms into his food. He would be dead in less than the next sixteen hours.

She went to sleep feeling peaceful, with little Renee tucked in close beside her. The next morning, she awoke to the sound of vomiting and weak calling of her name. "What's wrong my dear Wickham?" she questioned, entering his room. He was pale with sheen of sweat on his whole face. Before he spoke, he vomited again. "Call for Mr. Miller…" he begged pathetically. That's just what she did, knowing that he could not be saved, no matter how good of a physician was called. Mr. Miller came quickly, and when he saw Lydia answer the door in perfect health, he looked confused.

"It's George, I think he's finally drank himself to death," she fake cried, her eyes watering. In reality, they were tears of joy. The physician rushed upstairs, and he did not come out of George's room for three hours, and when he finally did, he gave Lydia that special look of pity. "He's in his final minutes, go to him Mrs. Wickham."

Slowly, over the creaky wooden floors, Lydia went to the room of her husband, to find him shivering, and nearly delirious. "Lydia, come here," he begged, beckoning her with his hand. She obeyed, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Please, talk to me," he paused, vomiting in the chamber pot once more; his vomit was laced with blood. Lydia touched his face gently, and he leaned into her hand. She gave him her dimpled smile that he had once claimed made him love her in the first place.

She leaned close to him, her lips brushing his ear, "I knew I would win, you'll finally know your place- hell." Lydia pushed away from him, and the look in his eyes revealed that he now understood that _she_ was the one who was causing this. "Goodbye my dearly departed Wickham." The twenty year old woman spat as her husband breathed in his last shuddering breath. Before she left the room, Lydia mustered fake tears and flew into the arms of Mr. Miller.

"I've sent a servant to get your friend Millicent Morgan, she'll be here any minute." He said uncomfortably, starting up the stairs to see the body to sign a certificate of death. Within seconds the door burst open, Millicent running in and grabbing Lydia into an embrace. "You did it, didn't you?" she breathed.

Lydia could only nod and reply, "You were right."

_**End of Part 1**_


End file.
